Judgmental Eyes

You see the woman in the bar again. She drinks from a martini glass. Beady eyes focused on the olive she’ll never touch. She hates olives. You stare at her, and at first, all you see is a coat of faux fur with the one spot that’s been burnt with an iron. After a while you see her false opulence, in the form of pearls that strangle her overabundance of rings.

You don’t really see her.

Nobody does.

Nobody sees her when she wakes up mangled in the black trash bags of everyone else’s shit. Nobody sees her when she scavenges for a mirror, just so she can remind herself that even her reflection is worthless. Nobody sees her when she stares in the Tiffany’s window, just to put sharpie on her eyelashes to make them look longer. Nobody sees her when she begs for money so she can buy a martini just to feel important again.